


almost a miracle

by thedevilchicken



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Someone Help Will Graham, Someone Helps Will Graham, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 18:30:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: After Dolarhyde, Will is kidnapped to lure Hannibal in. This goes about as well as expected.





	almost a miracle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ConvenientAlias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/gifts).



Will Graham doesn't need help. What he needs is a miracle. 

The FBI officially presumed them both dead after their swan dive off the cliff following the far-reaching fuck-up with Francis Dolarhyde, not that stopped people looking. Not all of the people looking were law enforcement. And yes, Hannibal was the one who was the serial killers' pin-up boy, Hannibal was the psychopaths' wet dream, but Will Graham would always do in a pinch. Even if all he is is bait. Which he guesses is how he's ended up here, tied to an antique chair in a wine cellar. 

As far as he can figure it, he's been sold four times already. As far as he can figure it, because he's been knocked out more times in the past three weeks than he has in the thirty years preceding them. If he doesn't have a concussion on top of a concussion on top of three needlestick marks in the crook of one arm and a gash in his shoulder he's pretty sure is infected, he'll be surprised. Except he's not going to be surprised because he knows it's true. 

At least the cellar's clean, he thinks, or it looks like it is when they've turned on the lights long enough for his eyes to adjust. It's full of French- and Italian- and Spanish-sounding names Hannibal could probably pronounce ten times better than he could, but he's pretty sure he'd still have his accent no matter the language. It follows him around like a fingerprint except he's never really tried to hide it. He probably could, but he'd probably find it distasteful. 

He'd probably find Will's condition distasteful, too. He's been wearing the same clothes since he got snatched off of a trawler somewhere off the coast of New England, fish guts still staining the thighs of his jeans and blood on his sweater, maybe his own or maybe it's the cod's. It's not like laundering is going to help because they cut one sleeve up to the bicep so they wouldn't have to uncuff him when they drugged him. He liked the sweater. he liked the trawler. Hannibal would have more appreciation for the wine.

The lights flicker on. They're too bright for him to see at first because he's been down there in the perfect dark, staring into the fucking abyss for who knows how long now while his open eyes give him psychedelic aurora borealis, and he's not sure if that's just phosphenes or the drug they gave him's a hallucinogen. Now he winces and squints against the overhead lights and they're not even bright - it's practically goddamn mood lighting for oenophiliacs. 

He hears the door open. He hears footsteps on the stairs. They come closer, heel-toe, heel-toe against the polished concrete floor. He imagines hand-stitched leather soles. He imagines a hand-stitched tailored suit. All he can see is a shape ringed in light like a phosphorescent halo but when hands settle at his shoulders, and thumbs brush at his neck, his mouth twists. What it makes is something that both is and isn't a smile. 

"Hello, Dr. Lecter," he says. 

And then he passes out.

\---

Will knows he was bait for a hook to catch a bigger fish. Somehow, through hubris or just good old-fashioned ignorance, the ones doing the fishing didn't realise they were luring a shark.

Upstairs, out of the cellar, it's a nice house. It's big - too big for Will to really like it. More bedrooms than some hotels he's stayed in, bigger kitchen than some restaurants. A lake on the grounds that he can see out of the window in the bedroom and the rain that's churning up the surface makes it look a lot like the sea. It's like Mason Verger all over again, Will thinks, except last night, when he said that out loud, Hannibal disagreed. 

"Unlike dear Mason, he actually had taste," he said. 

Will raised his brows. "Do you mean that literally?" he asked.

Hannibal just smiled. Will didn't press.

When Will opened his eyes after his trip into unconsciousness, he was lying down. His filthy clothes were gone and he was wearing a silk robe in a deep-vivid red that made it look so much like it was dyed in blood that he half expected that his palms would come away slick when he touched it. When he shrugged his shoulder out of it, he found it had been neatly sutured underneath a dressing. When he checked the crook of his arm, there was a pad of gauze taped down over the needle marks. He was clean, everywhere, his hair and his skin and his teeth and his nails. When he imagined Hannibal washing him, bare hands and a washcloth, his chest felt tight.

He found him in the kitchen, cooking. His jacket was folded neatly over the back of a chair and an apron was tied neatly around his waist. He looked up from the chopping board with a genial smile. 

"Breakfast?" he said. He gestured with the point of the knife in his hand, not a threat but an invitation. "Please, take a seat." 

Will sat, because otherwise he was half sure he would've fallen. He watched him cook. Honestly, he found the familiarity of it soothing. 

"You know this was a trap," Will said, as they were eating. 

"Of course," Hannibal replied.

"You came anyway," Will said.

"Of course," Hannibal replied.

It's still raining outside, and Will's watching the lake from the master bedroom with the windows thrown wide open. The man who bought him's clothes don't fit him perfectly but they do fit; he's mostly out of the path of the rain but splashes find his face every now and then, and clings to the cashmere sweater that hangs a bit too loose. It's gray like a stormcloud so Will figures that's apt. 

He hears footsteps behind him, coming closer. He knows there's no need to worry, though; there are only two people in the house, and he's one of them. There are only two people _alive_. Will hasn't bothered to count the rest. 

Last night, they slept in the same bed. Hannibal changed the dressing on Will's shoulder, assessing the wound with his usual sharpness, then he washed his hands in the master bath with the door left open just a crack. From the bed, leaning back against the ornate headboard, Will could see flashes of skin under the too-bright bathroom lights as Hannibal stripped off his clothes, and all the scars that maybe didn't match his own but didn't exactly not. 

"Hannibal," he said, and Hannibal looked at him in the mirror, through the not-quite-open door that he then turned and opened. He stood naked in the doorway looking at him levelly as if he expected Will to balk and look away. He didn't and so Hannibal, intrigued, came closer. The way he moved was the way he'd always moved, and the way he looked at him was the way he'd always looked at him, and although Will resents the path that's led them here, he knows he'd probably take it again. 

\---

Will's standing at the window in the rain. He hears footsteps, but he knows Hannibal killed six men to get to him. The fact he finds that reassuring really should bother him more than it does. 

Last night, the sex wasn't perfect, and Will frankly never expected it to be. He's still fighting an infection - who knows where Hannibal had gotten the drugs from to help that - and it's not even so long since the long way down and the separation after. When Will came out of the water, he didn't look for him; he waited on the beach till sundown and then walked away, but that doesn't mean he ever thought he'd died. He carried on, but that doesn't mean he expected their paths would never cross again. 

Hannibal pushed inside him with a frowning, halting non-rhythm of stop-starts, not enough lube in the start and then what felt like too much, smeared across Will's abdomen so it stuck their skin together every time they got close. Will's thighs started to cramp and Hannibal's perfect hair all hung down out of place and Will's hands kept on slipping where he gripped Hannibal's arms. It was almost like they did it more to prove they could than because they felt it, but Will felt it. He got both hands to Hannibal's jaw and made him look at him. He snaked one hand down around his own cock and when he came between the two of them, seeing stars, Hannibal was red-faced and sweaty and they really _could_.

Now Hannibal's hands settle cautiously at Will's hips. His nose nudges his hair and he feels his breath come out like a sigh against his neck that makes him shiver. Then Hannibal wraps his arms around his waist and squeezes a fraction tighter. They can't stay here for long, but there's a little time yet.

Will didn't need help. He needed a miracle. 

Hannibal Lecter is not a miracle. But Will figures he'll do.


End file.
